


Mr. Rogers

by Withstarryeyes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Civil War (Marvel), hurt!Tony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 07:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14100537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes
Summary: Post-Civil War Steve trying to pick up the pieces at a farm a thousand miles away. An injured Tony yanks him back to New York where he has to face everything he did and everything he broke. Maybe love ensues, maybe only heartbreak but Steve has to figure it out for himself.Not a fix-it fic but not entirely hopeless either





	1. The Call

Steve never thought he’d end up here. Dead? Sure. But a thousand miles away, on a farm with a freshly groomed beard and the thrumming of his blood in his hands as he desperately sought to avoid every last memory of Tony and his fight? Never. But here he was, polishing cowboy boots with a soft bristled brush, trying to shut away from the look in Tony’s eyes as his shield broke the arc reactor, the blue light flickering and fading, Tony’s eyes too wild, too far away to be anywhere but beside Obie’s betrayal.

He’s not sure what part of him drove him to flee into the country. It’s not like he grew up here, not when he was zipping through the alleys in Brooklyn when he was just about tall enough to come up to the top of a rain boot. Comfort for him had always been the harsh glare of lights and the smell of booze wafting out from open bar doors. It had always been cigarette smoke and bustling cabbies and movement, always movement.

But here he was, in stillness, in the blanketed isolation of a farm. And so far he liked it. He finished brushing the last set of boots and collected in his arms, moving quickly and unsteadily over the rolling land to the main ranch where he’d organize them in the den and then hit the kitchen for a quick meal of whatever biscuits, jam, butter, and milk were leftover.

His host family, an old couple that had lived served and survived the same war he had, nodded at him as he passed. The lady, about 86 with greying hair and kind blue eyes, tutted over the bruises on his arms that had yet to fade. The man, tall and somber, quiet after the war, handed him his paycheck and left to go dim the lights around the house, get ready for slumber before the early wake.

Steve made idle chit-chat with them before slipping out to nab a shower. His shoulders ached as he peeled back his layers, first a plaid shirt and then the white undershirt, soaked with sweat and sticking to his abs. His hair was a mess, sticking up all over the place, and a golden blonde three shades lighter than when he had arrived. He had a light sunburn across his nose, strawberry against his pale skin, and there were red, Irish freckles blooming across the highpoints of his face and dotting his shoulders like snowfall.

He was a far cry from the Steve just a few months ago, Brooklyn native down to the accent and clean-shaven, no bags under his eyes, not even a hair out of place on his head.

The steamy water felt good on his aching muscles and Steve took his precious shower time to reflect. Think back on Tony and Bucky, on the whole, Civil War, on the things he did and what he sacrificed. For what? At this point, halfway between a fugitive and a refugee, he really didn’t know and, at the point of turning off the stream, he still didn’t know.

He returned to his room after, it was pitch black night and Steve stared at the stars, unmoving in the distance. For all the things that Steve missed about New York, it was the light pollution he missed most. Something about the stars, the massive bank of them made him feel small and judged Like Tony was the one who flew the nuke into them and didn’t flinch at their dripping inky teeth and Steve was burned in the wake of them. Dying at his betrayal of their son, their Tony fricking Stark. He closed the blinds, shut his eyes and repeated his nightly ritual of pretending like he could sleep without waking up in a cold sweat, Tony’s scarred face in his brain, replaying over and over again as his shield crushed into the arc reactor, throwing the blinding blue glow into a doused fire.

Buzzing woke him up, thick and permeating through the still dark room. It was persistent and it roused him out of his blank sleep, nothing but hazy darkness in his periphery. It took Steve a couple of drowsy moments to figure out it was coming from the drawer in his nightstand, the closed drawer that he had chucked his motorcycle keys, his old phone and a small, pitiful pile of cash in and then closed, locking away his old life like it was something that could be forgotten.

From the glow leaking out of the crack of the wood, Steve gleamed it was his phone going off and his hesitantly opened the drawer, looking at the cracked screen of the iPhone Fury had paid for. There was a number scrawled across the top in bold, clear white letters and under was a picture, one he had to clear his mind again to ensure wasn’t a hallucination.

But it wasn’t because one doesn’t just hallucinate Tony Stark, especially Tony in a comfortable t-shirt and grease covered jeans, eyes bright against the background of his lab, cheesily posing for the camera. Deep in his chest, Steve felt something not unlike a rising anchor rip through and up from the bottom of his stomach to his collarbone. Uneasily, with shaking hands he pressed the green call button, held the speaker to his ear and waited.

Eventually, he cleared his throat and a voice started on the other side, clear and calm and nothing like Tony’s deep, smooth cadence.

“Mr. Rogers?”

Steve licks his lips, feeling the anxiety bubble up from his toes, collecting in his chest, “That’s me, uh, yeah, that’s me?”

“You’re listed as Mr. Stark’s medical proxy--”

Steve cuts him off before he can finish, “Is something wrong, how bad is it? I can be wherever in a couple hours or so. What hospital?”

“Mr. Rogers, I’d advise you to take a deep breath. Mr. Stark is in good hands and he is currently being transported to a SHIELD medical center in Manhattan. Director Fury has a helicopter ready to pick you up with the input of an address.”

“Yes of course. I’m at the Eldrich family farms in Ithaca.”

“See you soon, it’s good to have you back,” the man pauses before tacking on a “Captain.”


	2. Trembling

Fury was waiting for him as he landed, legs still shaky at flying. He’d never gotten used to it, never gotten used to moving in the air, never shook off how wrong it felt, how new it was even in his time. 

He had a bag slung over his shoulder, a change of clothes and his wallet chucked in there. Nothing but the bare bones of himself, not that he was any more than that anyway. 

“Rogers.”

“Fury,” Steve stared at the man, tall and straight as an arrow, one eye glaring. He didn’t seem affected by Tony’s injury at all, nevertheless that he’d known him since he was a kid. 

“He’s on the third floor but, Steve, there’s some...details you need to be briefed on before.”

“Sure, Nick, let me see him first.”

“Rogers.”

Steve stilled and turned, eyes glaring. Something bright flared in his chest, angry and hurt. No. No, he didn’t want to stop he didn’t want to listen, he wanted to...breathe. He wanted to see Tony, he wanted to smell his cologne, look at the oil under his fingernails, count the curls flopping onto his forehead. He wanted to take Tony in his arms and reclaim his old life. And, even though he knew he couldn’t do that, he’d rather take Tony’s wary gaze and a protective hand over the arc reactor and a smattering of jokes that fell flat than stand and look at Fury, of all people, telling him stuff about his boyfriend that he had flat out missed. 

“Not now.” He shouldered his way past a man he’d given everything up for once, and someone he thought he’d owed before winding down the steps and falling in line with the dozens of agents following him, making sure he wasn’t seen, wasn’t reported to still be floating out when there were warrants out on him. 

“Sir, with all due respect,” one of them started and Steve continued marching. 

“Captain,” a few more pleaded. 

“I’m not a Captain anymore, either call me Steve or Mr. Rogers but not Captain.”

“Mr. Rogers, sir, SIR,” Steve’s hand was on the room marked 305, Tony’s room and his heart were battering against his chest so hard that he could feel his blood draining, could feel it racing in his veins. It didn’t surprise him when a voice was ripped from deep inside him, snarling at the agents. 

“With all due respect, _agent_ , this is my problem and my priority. I will deal with the briefing later and if _any_ of you try and keep me away again other than Stark himself I will throw you through _several_ layers of cement. “

And with that Steve turned the knob, slipping into the dimly lit room, feeling like he was opening the whole world and falling into a black hole all at the same time. 

Tony sat up on the bed, pooling brown eyes closed, lips puffing out peacefully with his slumbering breaths. Steve felt tears well up in his eyes and he took a few breaths, pushed them out, forced his hands to stop trembling. Tony’s hair was a little longer than when he’d left, his curls fully grown and plopping down into his face. His skin was pale like he’d spent too long in his workshop and Steve rolled his eyes in exasperation, the damn bastard was a hermit at heart. And, glowing from his chest, was the arc reactor, blue light glaring at Steve. He ducked his head in shame and sobbed quietly in the room, feeling his legs fold underneath him until he was backed up against the wall. 

Light pollution or not, nothing could shield Steve from this, from who he was, from what he’d done. Nothing and that is what scared him the most. 

“Honey, Steve?” Tony’s voice boomed out into the room and Steve jolted, face still puffy and red, his breathing still stuttering. He was weak and pathetic and lost and here... he was here. Would Tony even want him? “Are you crying? Jesus, come here, come here,” his voice was so soft, so forgiving, shame and fear and suspicion bubbled at the pit of his stomach. 

Nevertheless, he scrambled onto his legs and ambled over to the bed, stabilizing himself on the rails, breathing heavy and guilty down to his bones. 

“Hi, hi, hi, I’m sorry,” he whispered and tilted his head down, feeling Tony adust to put two hands on his cheeks, stroke at the tear tracks. 

“For what, it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. I get hurt sometimes, it’s okay.”

Hurt? How could Tony think that was what this was about. 

“N-not that, It’s for... the accords and what I did and,” he broke down again, legs threatening to fold again but Tony hauled him onto the bed and curled around him. 

“Steve I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Fear and Fury entered the room then, one spiking Steve’s adrenaline, and one telling him blankly, “As I tried to explain to you, Steve, Tony had an aneurysm and it took with it the last six months.”

_Six months?_ That means... the last memory Tony had of Steve was them as a couple, hopelessly in love. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing with this idea for a while, don't know at this time if I'm going to finish it but figured I'd send the first part out and see if anyone is interested. If you would like to see more of this fic please leave a comment. Feedback always helps me gauge reader interest and balance what I want to do with what people want to see so everyone is happy. 
> 
> Thanks  
> -C


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